Ironically, no one knows for sure who “invented” the adage “Necessity is the Mother of Invention.” Though variously attributed to Plato, Aesop, and an Indian philosopher (no, it wasn’t Frank Zappa), the saying came into general usage in 17th century England. Several hundred years later, the proverb would prove prophetic for a small, sickly Jewish girl from Finsbury Park, London. Born in 1910 with flat feet, knock knees and weak legs, Lilian Alicia Marks was the unlikeliest of future ballet stars. First, all classical ballerinas in her day were Russian. Second, as Markova herself often joked, “What would people say to a girl with throat trouble who announced her intention of becoming an operatic singer?”

It was at the beach that Eileen Marks first noticed her daughter’s “duck-like” flat feet, knock-knees and wobbly legs. (Pictured here: the 5-year-old Markova next to her mother holding baby sister Doris.)

The necessity of remedial ballet exercises unmasked a dance prodigy.

And indeed, little Lily would never have dreamt of a dance career had ballet class not become a necessity. Not only did she have fallen arches, but her right knee often buckled under. The doctor proposed leg irons as a cure, a fate neither the frail seven-year-old nor her mother relished. Any other options? Ballet exercises might strengthen her limbs and feet, offered the physician. They did. And a ballet prodigy was discovered in the process.

From the The Making of Markova: “Balanchine started asking me to do all kinds of things, including a lot of acrobatic steps. These I did rather to his surprise, mine too I might add. Finally he said, ‘Now please do for me two pirouettes in the air, like the men do.’ This seemed to me a little extraordinary as I had never even tried to do one. Anyway, I attempted it and went round perfectly. He was delighted and said, ‘Yes, you will do.'”

George Balanchine asked the teenaged Markova to do acrobatic steps formerly only performed by men. Their collaboration on The Nightingale was a triumph for them both.

Within months, the naïve teen became the youngest ever soloist at the world famous Ballets Russes and star of Balanchine’s first full-length choreographic work for the company, The Nightingale. As London newspaper The Independent would later comment: “Alicia’s incredible virtuosity thrilled Balanchine. He included double tours en l’air, a turning jump from the male lexicon, and devised a diagonal of jouettés that gave the impression of a little bird hopping.” The ballet launched both of their careers. However, Lilian Alicia Marks would not be listed on the program. Being a prima ballerina in the 1920s “necessitated” a Russian name. “Who would pay to see Marks dance?” scoffed Diaghilev, who quickly rechristened her Alicia Markova.

At Diaghilev’s behest, the 14-year-old Markova learned to dance silently.

Diaghilev also believed the best ballerinas made as little noise as possible. More than anything, his youngest-ever prodigy wanted to please him, so Markova learned to dance silently. “If Markova springs like a winged fairy, she comes to the ground just as lightly,” wrote British dance historian Cyril Beaumont, “noiselessly in fact, always passing – ball, sole, heel – through the whole of the supplanted foot. Of how many ballerine can that be said?”

An airy lightness would become Markova’s signature, along with her never showing any signs of physical exertion or heavy breathing. She developed that otherworldly quality out of necessity when performing with Marie Rambert’s Ballet Club, one of England’s first classical dance companies in the early 1930s. “The stage at the Mercury Theatre, it was very small,” explained Rambert. “But she [Markova] turned it to her advantage. She developed a very effortless technique. You could stand quite close to her. You didn’t hear her breathe. You didn’t hear her move a step. She just floated on a cloud. It was really wonderful!”

To prevent her headpieces from moving while on-stage, Markova glued them to her head! (From Cimarosiana, 1927.)

Markova may have been extremely timid off-stage in her early dancing years, but she was a whirlwind on. So much so, that one night while doing a series of rapid turns, her headdress flew off, fortunately settling ’round her neck rather than landing with a thud. Though Diaghilev was impressed she kept dancing impeccably, he sternly warned that must never happen again. The obedient teen’s solution? Glue. Fortunately she found one that stuck without removing every hair on her head.

Nicknamed “the Sphinx” by her Ballets Russes peers, Markova was exceptionally quiet in a company of exuberant personalities. She was keenly observant, however, avidly attending dress rehearsals of other dancers. That was lucky for her when she inherited the lead role in La Chatte.

“[Olga] Spessivtseva created it and had an accident, and then [Alice] Nikitina took over and she hurt her foot, and then I went in,” Markova explained to Speaking of Diaghilev author John Drummond. “I was the third Cat. I was only sixteen at the time, but I was very observant. I had noticed that they complained so much about the floor because it was black. American cloth, terribly slippery in certain areas. And other areas, because of the very modern design, were like cotton, two surfaces, and I figured out that was causing the accidents.”

Markova got the better of La Chatte’s dangerous floor cloth.

Making matters worse – or better, depending how you look at it – La Chatte choreographer George Balanchine decided to take advantage of Alicia’s special talents and add more complicated and difficult moves. Again, as told to Drummond: “I thought, I don’t want to hurt my foot. I don’t want to be put out, because it was a wonderful ballet, marvelous role. I had to solve the problem somehow, and this slippery floor, because otherwise I wasn’t going to be able to do all these double turns in the air that Balanchine had given me and all these pirouettes on pointe which he had added, so I suddenly remembered when I danced on a ballroom floor, I used to have rubbers [sole grips] put on my ballet shoes.”

Markova invented a ballet wardrobe essential . . .

As one critic noted, “The Cat of Alicia Markova was flawless. She is an accomplished ballerina . . . one of the greatest dancer talents of present times.” And resourceful. In fact, to solve an ongoing workout problem, she invented one of today’s most ubiquitous ballet essentials. The lightbulb went off while Markova was knitting a bed jacket as a Christmas gift for an elderly friend. In order to make the wrap both warm and comfortably lightweight, she created an airy, lace-like stitch using extra thick wooden needles.

That gave her an idea. Up until that time, dancers wore heavy leg warmers over knit tights during winter practice sessions. Despite the cold, the wool made them sweat profusely. In Markova’s case, perspiring heavily led to weight loss she could ill afford. So using the same open-weave stitch as in the bed jacket, she created lightweight leg covers that were breathable and less restrictive.

When fellow dancers saw Markova’s creation, they asked if she might be willing to knit them several pairs as well. She would. They quickly caught on and the ballet world has Alicia Markova to thank for the standard practice leggings of today.

Despite Markova’s prodigious appetite, she appeared lighter than air on stage.

Unlike many of her peers, Markova was always trying to put on weight rather than lose it. Bone thin in her early years, she was once described by dancer/choreographer Agnes DeMille as “the stringiest girl I ever saw, a darling little skeleton.” And as Ballet Club’s Marie Rambert noted, “Happy Alicia who can eat like a mortal and dance like an immortal. It was so astonishing to see Alicia putting down a thick solid steak and kidney pie, and to think when she comes on the stage, she’s a disembodied spirit. How did she do it?”

Five meals a day cost money and Markova made very little of that while pioneering British ballet in the early 1930s. “I had to live and I always had a great appetite,” she later reminisced. “I love my food, so I was doing commercial work as well.” The “commercial work” Markova referred to was dancing in popular stage musicals, as well as live at London’s Regal Cinema three times daily between film showings – much like the Rockette shows at Radio City Music Hall in New York. Frederick Ashton was the choreographer.

Paltry wages from London’s nascent ballet companies necessitated Markova’s taking on commercial work to support herself and her family. (Here in the romantic comedy A Kiss in Spring, 1930, with Harold Turner.)

From The Making of Markova: The pay was exorbitant for the times, £20 a week for Markova, and would subsidize her and Ashton’s more serious collaborations for the budding British ballet community. . . . Everything was on a grand scale, especially when compared to the tiny, small-budgeted Mercury Theatre. . . . Sandwiched between a performance of The Regal Symphony Orchestra and the Hollywood film Illicit – starring Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Blondell – Alicia Markova and William Chappell were to appear live on stage in the Dance of the Hours. The production was quite an extravaganza with the two leads, amply surrounded by a large – though rather inexperienced – corps de ballet. The audience was wowed nonetheless, captivated by the two stars, elaborate sets, and fanciful costumes. . . .

The Cinema production numbers changed every three weeks, which meant Markova would be performing three shows a day in one ballet, while rehearsing the next one. It took a toll physically, especially in Ashton’s Foxhunting Ballet, where Markova played the titled Fox “in all-over brown leotard, large bushy tail, a bonnet with little ears and paw-like gloves.”

. . .”I just remembered being dazzled at what she was doing,” [ballet critic] Arnold Haskell remembered years later. “It was sandwiched between the selling of ice-creams and the film and all that, and you couldn’t get into a ballet atmosphere, but you could admire the virtuosity, and it was a show of virtuosity for a popular public.” In many ways, it could not have been a more effective tool for helping ballet trickle through all levels of society in England for the first time.

While many high-toned balletomanes looked down on a ballerina of Markova’s stature performing in such “mass-market” productions, she continued appearing in popular venues long after she needed the money. Never a snob, Markova felt exposing new audiences to the beauty of ballet – no matter where they first saw it – would only increase ticket sales for classical dance. And it did.

Perhaps it was kissing the legendary Blarney Stone that gave Markova her belated gift for the gab.

Another boon to popularizing ballet in the 1930s and ’40s was Markova’s appreciation for – and mastery of – the mass media of her day. In 1932, she became the first ballet dancer ever to appear on the new-fangled medium of television (see earlier post: The Television-ary Markova), and willed herself to become a more vocal marketer in newspapers and magazines. That was not easy for a woman who barely spoke a word until age 6 and totally lacked confidence as a public speaker. But Markova loved ballet, and wanted everyday folks everywhere to share her appreciation. Understanding the power and wide reach of print media, she slowly but surely became a more lively and entertaining interview subject. Her natural empathy and down-to-earth manner endeared her to thousands of housewives and working women, especially during the war years. (See earlier post: Markova Entertains the Troops.)

Contractual obligations necessitated Markova’s dancing in the U.S. during WWII, though she wished to stay in London with her family. (From left to right, the Marks sisters Vivienne, Doris, and Bunny.)

And speaking of the war years, Markova wished to remain in London with her family and friends at the outbreak of WWII. Unfortunately, she had an ironclad contract to dance in the U.S., with non-compete clauses and threats of legal injunctions requiring she honor her commitment or stop performing all together. As the main financial support of her sisters and widowed mother, Markova had no choice. But she managed to stay connected to her loved ones through weekly shipments of goods that were rationed in wartime London.

By splitting travel expenses with fellow prima ballerina (and best friend) Alexandra Danilova, Markova was able to send more rations and money home to her family during the war years.

That necessitated two things: careful budgeting of her meager wages, and inventive packaging to insure delivery. From The Making of Markova: “I would always ask what the shortages were and I remember the one time, they said lemons. . . . You couldn’t get lemons. I went out and bought a lot of lemons, and I thought how are we going to get them through? Customs will take them first, probably. So what we did, we got a whole lot of old sweaters that looked like awful old shabby things and filled the arms with the lemons and rolled them up . . . and we sent them over to the family.”

Though metals were severely rationed during the war, Markova shared her allotment of hairpins with the ballerina “bunheads” back home.

Markova also made sure to send “necessities” like hard-to-find lipsticks for her sisters, with ballet shoe ribbons and metal hairpins going to needy “bun heads” at the Sadler’s Wells Ballet School. “Bobby pins! We couldn’t get anything like that,” famed British ballerina Beryl Grey later told Markova. “We were so excited and grateful, and so touched that you were thinking of us.”

“An extravagance is something that your spirit thinks is a necessity,” proffered British philosopher Bernard Williams. One might agree that a fur coat is a prime example. But that wouldn’t be true for early 20th century ballet dancers. Winter tours throughout Europe, and later the United States, often required extensive journeys in unheated trains. It was a bone-chilling experience. In fact, Anna Pavlova caught pneumonia when her touring train broke down in a frigid snowstorm, causing her premature death within weeks.

Fur coats were truly a necessity for ballerinas during frigid cross-country tours. (Here, the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo trio of Markova, Danilova, and Mia Slavenska.)

When the 14-year-old – and penniless – Markova was accepted at the Ballets Russes, a generous, well-traveled friend of the family had one of her own fur coats cut down and remade for the tiny dancer, knowing she would need it. Later, Markova learned how valuable that gift really was. It wasn’t just the unheated trains. Dancers often spent hours on wind-swept, icy rail platforms waiting for luggage, costumes and sets to be loaded or unloaded. A lightweight fur also served as a soft mattress, warm blanket, and even a public relations tool. After lengthy trips on bumpy railcars, ballerinas hardly looked their best when arriving in a new town. Markova noted that donning their fur coats made them look glamorous to the press, even when they could barely keep their eyes open.

Markova was repeatedly asked to have her ethnic nose “fixed” throughout her career.

There was one “necessity” Markova staunchly opposed throughout her career. She was repeatedly advised to have her ethnic nose bobbed so she would look “prettier” – and more importantly – less Jewish.

When Markova began dancing, classical ballerinas were all Russian, and Jews were not allowed to attend the Maryinsky ballet school in St. Petersburg. In fact Jews weren’t even allowed to live in cities like St. Petersburg and Moscow without special permits. Anna Pavlova was Jewish, but hid that fact throughout her career. Even when she was world-famous, she was afraid of losing fans if her religion became public in such anti-Semitic times.

Alicia Markova felt differently. Not only did she refuse to have her prominent nose “fixed,” but she was also openly vocal about her religion, becoming a great source of pride in Jewish media circles throughout Europe and the United States.

Markova’s prominent profile was later celebrated by fashion magazines, such as this stunning Vogue photograph by John Rawlings.

Markova would become the first Jewish – and first British – prima ballerina assolutain history, and a role model for young dancers all over the globe. “Necessity is the last and strongest weapon,” wrote Titus Levy in ancient Rome. For Markova, honoring her religion was that kind of necessity.

She can if her name is Alicia Markova. Though Sheryl Sandberg certainly didn’t have ballerinas in mind when writing Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead, she’d be mightily impressed with Markova’s work ethic and hard-won success. Yes, even ballet could be a ruthless profession controlled by men, and Markova fought for a seat at their table. Though painfully shy and obedient as a child, Lilian Alicia Marks grew up to be not only the greatest classical ballerina of her generation, but also a force in ballet. She pioneered British ballet at a time when only Russian troupes commanded respect and full houses; and two of the three companies she helped launch are still in existence today – The Royal Ballet and English National Ballet.

The young Peggy Hookham, soon to be Margot Fonteyn

By becoming the first British-born international ballet star, Markova paved the way for countless dancers to follow. One was a young girl named Peggy Hookham, who Markova took under her wing and mentored. Hookham is better known today by her more mellifluous stage name, Margot Fonteyn. Later in her career, Fonteyn paid tribute to Markova saying she “always remained my ideal and my idol.”

The Royal Ballet founder Ninette de Valois

Women working together to succeed would also please Facebook COO Sandberg. Markova had the good fortune to have her own female mentor, the beautiful Irish-born ballerina Ninette de Valois (christened Edris Stannus). When Markova was a timid 14-year-old neophyte at the Ballets Russes, company impresario Sergei Diaghilev – who thought of Alicia as a daughter – asked the self-assured de Valois (then 26) to watch over his “Douchka,” (little darling). Markova couldn’t have been more fortunate. Years later, she offered her public gratitude in a radio tribute celebrating de Valois’s 100th birthday (she lived to be 102!): “I was put in your care and I thanked God every night because it wasn’t so much the dance part, but how you taught me what I should eat, what would be good for me, what would give me strength. Not only that, but how to go shopping and how to buy everything, because at that time, we all had very, very low salaries. And so really, in a few words, you tried to teach me how to deal with life.”

Markova in Giselle

And it would be the pairing of de Valois and Markova that launched the Sadler’s Wells, known today as The Royal Ballet. The formidable de Valois was convinced she could form an all-British ballet company using her talents as a choreographer, teacher, and director. What she lacked was a star. Markova would become the first British prima ballerina to perform many of today’s most famous full-length Russian classics (Giselle, Swan Lake, The Nutcracker), putting de Valois’s fledgling company on the map. In her autobiography Come Dance With Me, de Valois wrote the following about her lifelong friend who she always called Alice:

The feisty Markova in Les Masques, 1933

“I think of all the artists that I have ever encountered she is the most self-reliant. Her strength of purpose and her courage run deep: when Alice says very quietly that something does not matter, that it is quite all right, she means, in one sense, exactly the opposite – for she does not trouble to explain that she considers it her own concern to set about rectifying the matter in question.”

Under de Valois’s tutelage, Markova learned to stand up for herself, and never shied away from asking for a higher salary – another Sandberg rule. When first partnered with Markova, the inexperienced choreographer Frederick Ashton was so impressed with her negotiating skills that he asked her to handle his salary dealings as well. But money was never the driving force in Markova’s career. She only asked for what she thought fair, and took less money than she could have received from large established companies in order to remain loyal to de Valois and their joint efforts to legitimize British ballet. Even more remarkable was Markova’s gutsy decision to become the first “free agent” prima ballerina in later years, an unheard-of choice when prima ballerinas remained with one or two companies throughout their entire careers.

Markova gladly traded career security for freedom

As the London News Chronicle said of Markova in 1955: She is to the dance what Menuhin is to music, but unlike the violinist, she has no competitors in her field, for all the other leading ballerinas, from Fonteyn to Ulanova, work in the framework of established companies. Indeed, it seems as though Markova may be the last of her kind—the “rebel” dancer who is prepared to carry the full responsibility for her career on her own delicate shoulders.

It meant far more work, but also complete freedom, enabling Markova to pursue her dream of bringing ballet to people everywhere. She became the most widely traveled dancer of her era, performing in parts of the world that had never seen any ballet, let alone one of its greatest practitioners.

Markova on tour in South Africa

As a freelancer, Markova became a de facto CEO, handling her own bookings, finances, and travel arrangements, as well as hiring dancers, costume designers, and musicians. It was a tall order for someone who devoted her life to perfecting her art, and something she kept hidden from the public. Markova feared that being known as a smart business woman would take away from her ethereality on stage.

This week in The Guardian, former ballet dancer Leigh Thomas discusses how her ballet training was the ideal preparation for becoming a CEO in the advertising business world that she works in today. Markova was also a brilliant marketer, as you can read in a former post: Markova Strikes Up the Brand.

Markova and partner Anton Dolin

For the British dance pioneer, generating “good copy” was not about self-aggrandizement. Popularizing her art form was Markova’s passion, and one she most certainly leaned in to. She would become the most highly paid prima ballerina in the world, the most famous, and a groundbreaker at every turn. Of course, her profession called for a little leaning on as well!

Markova beautifully costumed in The Water Lily, 1935 (photo by Gordon Anthony).

Pity the poor ballet costume manager. While researching Markova’s biography, I was continually amazed at the painstaking, and enormously expensive, process of designing, constructing, and maintaining dance costumes for an entire company. Just one loose sequin falling on the stage can cause a dancer to slip and be seriously injured. And even in the grand Ballets Russes days, a single extravagant costume needed to be repeatedly altered to fit each prima ballerina performing the same starring role.

Then there’s the original design. As London’s V & A museum explains, “Dance costume is a highly specialised field and as well as having to reflect the overall concept of the work, body movement, the demands of the choreography of a particular work and the effects of different fabrics in motion all have to be taken into consideration.”

And what happens if those precious costumes somehow never make it to the dancers’ dressing rooms by curtain time? Simply put: no costumes, no show.

As a star performer with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, Alicia Markova spent much of World War II criss-crossing the United States by train. The schedule was grueling, with the dancers often spending only one or two days in each city before moving on to the next venue.

And this went on for months.

Though they traveled with their scenery and costumes in a second railcar – quite a time-consuming project to pack and unpack at every stop – wartime needs sometimes intervened. As reported in the Arkansas Gazette in 1942: “Scheduled to give a performance at 8:30 P.M. at the Auditorium yesterday, the [Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo] troupe was unable to appear for the first time in 50 scheduled performances.

No costumes, no performance.

“Coming from Columbus, Missouri, scenery, props and wardrobes were sidetracked at Memphis to allow passage of troop trains. ‘Our performances have run late before due to delay of wardrobes, but we have never had to cancel a performance until now,’ Leon Spachner company manager said.'”

Though one would think modern air and overnight shipping would prevent such an event in today’s world, think again. As reported by the Chicago Reader this past February: “Costumes for one of the most anticipated offerings of the season, the internationally celebrated Hamburg Ballet, headed by onetime Chicagoan John Neumeier, were stuck on a storm-delayed freighter. They wouldn’t make it to [the Harris Theater in] Chicago in time for the performances.”

The Hamburg Ballet costumes for their signature Third Symphony of Gustav Mahler never made it to the theater.

Amazingly, “That crisis was resolved before the public heard about it, when the legendary Paris Opera Ballet, another recent visitor to the Harris and one of the few other companies with the piece in their repertoires, came to the rescue, shipping its own costumes to Chicago by air. The Harris popped for alterations, and everything was back on track.”

But the Hamburg Ballet was twice-cursed in the “Windy City.” During the pre-opening dress rehearsal, an electrical fire broke out in the theater forcing the dancers out into the cold, some wearing just ballet slippers and tights. The show never went on.

Modern dance pioneer Martha Graham performing against a Noguchi-designed set in 1944

“In what has proved to be a fateful decision,” The New Yorker reported at the time, “the company’s sets and costumes—including pieces like the white throne from ‘Clytemnestra’ (1958) and the cloth set for ‘El Penitente’ (1940), both by [Isamu] Noguchi, as well as the Karinska gown from ‘Episodes’ (1959)—were placed in a series of rooms in the basement.”

Storage area for the Martha Graham Company following Hurricane Sandy.

Everything was later found to be submerged under six feet of water.

A similar waterlogged fate, but under very different circumstances, befell another historic ballet design when Markova was dancing with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in 1939. From The Making of Markova:

André Derain’s exquisite sets and costumes for Michel Fokine’s L’Epreuve d’Amour were lost at sea.

Dubbed “the Riviera afloat,” the gargantuan S.S. Rex was too large to enter Cannes harbor, where the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo was to disembark. That necessitated smaller boats being sent out to ferry the dancers, costumes, and cumbersome sets to the dock. As luck would have it, the Italian ocean liner was running late for its final destination, Genoa, so the captain decided to hurry things along.

In their haste, remembered Markova sadly, the overzealous crew ended up dumping several crates overboard. One was filled with André Derain’s exquisite Chinoiserie costumes and sets for [Michel Fokine’s] L’Epreuve d’Amour. The dancers watched horrified as the packing cases sank into the Mediterranean Sea and were quickly washed away. The company was never able to perform the ballet again.

Markova had her own series of costume mishaps at the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. As the first British prima ballerina in a predominantly Russian company, she was considered an interloper who had no right to “usurp” starring roles that “rightfully” belonged to the Russian ballerinas. (Markova’s great lifelong friend Alexandra Danilova, also a prima ballerina at the company, was happily an exception.) Not only did Markova have to contend with jealous dancers, but the all-Russian contingent of costume designers and seamstresses also had it in for her.

The first costume debacle occurred on opening night of Léonide Massine’s glorious Seventh Symphony in 1938. Markova starred as the “Spirit of the Air and Sky,” with a lighter-than-air costume designed by French artist Christian Bérard. Topping an all-over white silk leotard was a sky blue silk chiffon skirt appliquéd with almost imperceptible horsehair pale pink clouds. A larger cloud was to be appliquéd across Markova’s breast and one shoulder, leading up to a delicate winged hair ornament.

Bérard to the rescue.

On opening night, the Russian couturière Barbara Karinska (whose famous Martha Graham gown was destroyed in the above-mentioned flood) waited until the last minute to deliver Markova’s costume – or half a costume as it turned out. The ethereal skirt was finished but had no top or headpiece. Whether it was out of spite or poor planning, the result was the same. Markova couldn’t go on. Fortunately, the wildly creative Bérard came to the rescue. Rushing to Markova’s dressing room, he spotted a pale blue chiffon gown she had planned to wear to the after-party. Grabbing its matching scarf, the designer quickly draped and stitched the material into a top. Next he took a pair of scissors and cut wings from a piece of white paper, decorating them with black eyebrow pencil from the dressing table. The makeshift headpiece was fastened to her hair as Markova rushed on stage. The ballet was a triumph!

An unhappy pas de deux: egotistical Russian Serge Lifar had it in for the British Markova in Giselle (1938).

Markova’s next costume calamity was decidedly premeditated sabotage. Following her great success in Seventh Symphony, she was to star in the company’s debut performance of Giselle in London. It was Markova’s most acclaimed role to be danced in her hometown – sure to be a sellout.

But her partner was the egotistical Russian star Serge Lifar, who bizarrely re-choreographed the ballet to greatly expand his own role, that of Prince Albrecht. (A joke went around Paris that his Giselle should be renamed Albrecht!) Lifar wanted to dance London’s opening night with his fellow Russian, the beautiful Tamara Toumanova, a less fragile, curvier ballerina than the tiny Markova. The two Russian dancers were incensed that Toumanova had to play second fiddle to Markova. So too were the Russian seamstresses.

With constant costume sabotage, Markova kept a back-up Giselle costume under lock & key, like this one from 1934.

Quite nervous that her new costume wasn’t ready for the full dress rehearsal, Markova was nevertheless assured it would be in her dressing room opening night. When it finally arrived just a few minutes before curtain, lo and behold, the dress was way too big, having been “accidentally” made to fit Toumanova’s measurements. While this is a long and very entertaining story in all its detail (yes, you’ll have to buy The Making of Markova to find out!), Markova outfoxed everyone by bringing one of her old Giselle costumes to the theater as back-up. Lifar exploded, there were tears and screaming, but the show eventually went on.

Despite such a ruckus, Markova received an astounding 24 curtain calls, but Lifar refused to let her take any center stage bows without him. He was not only booed by the audience, but had to be physically restrained in the wings by stagehands to appease the Markova-loving crowd. This led to a major donnybrook – death threats, fisticuffs, and even a proprosed duel! – when Markova debuted the same role with Lifar at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. For more on that story, see my former post “Dirty Work Afoot: Treachery at the Ballet.”

Markova continued to experience costume sabotage with the company: an Act II costume slashed while she was on stage in Act I, packing needles hidden in her tutus, and other nefarious plots to physically harm or unnerve her – all to no avail. She would become the most famous, widely traveled, and highest paid classical ballerina of her generation.

The “winged” Markova in Les Elfes. (photo, Gordon Anthony)

One of my favorite “costume” stories took place in 1934, the year Markova made her London debut in Giselle. From The Making of Markova: . . . even people who had never been to the ballet now knew the name of Markova. One evening, a taxi driver escorted the ballerina, her flowers, and costume/makeup cases home from the theater. As the driver helped unload all her belongings, he suddenly called, “Ere, Miss, you’ve left your wings in the cab.” “My wings?” Markova asked.

The driver pointed to a single remaining case. ”They tell me you’re the dancer with the invisible wings, so I suppose you take ‘em round with you.”

Markova did indeed appear to effortlessly fly on stage, sometimes even letting her “wings” show, as when costumed for Les Elfes or Les Sylphides, one of her most celebrated roles. A pair she wore in 1926 as a sylph at Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes is carefully preserved for posterity in The Australian Ballet Collection.

“A girl must eat, particularly a ballet girl,” Alicia Markova told the London Daily Herald in 1954. “She burns up tremendous energy.” Unfortunately, the opposite message was recently conveyed to students at the English National Ballet School, a company originally co-founded by Markova (as The Festival Ballet) in 1950.

“Fabulous to have students and staff back in school after the Xmas break,” read the Facebook post. “Time to work off all that Xmas food.” A swift backlash ensued. “Scrutiny of weight and expectations for dancers to be unnaturally thin are prevalent in the ballet world,” former National Ballet of Canada dancer Kathleen Rea told the London Evening Standard. “I think the only logical conclusion a student would have reading the post is that they need to lose weight.”

The womanly figure of Russian prima ballerina Tamara Karsavina was considered the ideal in the early 1900s

How times change. When Markova began dancing in the early 1920s, her naturally bone-thin physique was considered unattractive for a dancer. Robust, athletic figures, like that of celebrated Russian prima ballerina Tamara Karsavina, were then the norm. The sylphilke Anna Pavlova, who Markova closely resembled both physically and stylistically, was a noted exception. At first considered too fragile to attend the Maryinsky Ballet School, Pavlova only won her spot by showing a combination of fierce determination and poetry in movement. An exception was made.

The same could be said of the just turned-14 Lilian Alicia Marks, who Diaghilev asked to join his famed Ballets Russes in 1924, shocking the rest of the company. The rechristened Markova was so tiny and frail-looking compared to the more established ballerinas like the vivacious Lydia Sokolova (real name Hilda Munnings) and sparkling Alexandra Danilova (soon to become Markova’s lifelong best friend). A mere waif, Markova surprised them all with her unexpectedly dynamic athleticism.

Danilova at the Ballets Russes (Apollo, 1928)

Danilova – said to have had the loveliest legs in ballet – struggled with her weight briefly following her defection from Russia. It was in 1924, when she and soon-to-be-lover George Balanchine joined the Ballets Russes, having recently spent the summer performing in Berlin.

“Piano Mover” Anton Dolin with Alexandra Danilova, (Le Bal, 1929)

Best friends Markova and Danilova shared a healthy appetite (Photo from The Making of Markova)

“I had gained weight since leaving Russia – all that German food has made me plump,” Danilova wrote in her autobiography Choura. “I started to rehearse with [Anton] Dolin, he complained about having to lift me. ‘What do you think I am, a piano mover?’ he asked.

“One night, I asked Balanchine to go out into the audience and watch me. He came backstage after the performance and said, ‘You want the truth?’ ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Choura, you look terrible – you’ve gotten so fat. What happened to you?’ The next morning, I went straight to the pharmacy and bought a bottle of diet pills – one in the morning, one in the evening, the directions said. Well, I thought, I’ll take five and I will melt immediately.

George Balanchine at the Ballets Russes

“The next thing I remember George was shaking me – I had passed out. He picked up the bottle and asked me, ‘Is this what you took?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered. He opened the window and threw the bottle out, then gave me a lecture about how I should lose the extra weight.” After Danilova switched to a healthy – and hearty – diet with lots of fish and no more sweets, the extra pounds disappeared. “Life in Russia had been a diet in itself,” she joked. Choura’s self-imposed, and certainly ill-fated, get-thin-quick scheme is a cautionary tale for today’s dance students.

The featherweight Markova ate prodigiously (photo by Constantine)

Markova’s own diet proved shocking to peers, but for very different reasons. From The Making of Markova: Paper-thin, Markova looked as if a soft breeze could blow her down, with the press often speculating that she needed to eat more to keep up her strength. When she appeared in The Rake’s Progress, the Daily Sketch reviewer commented, “Markova, as the Betrayed Girl, was her exquisite self – a delight – but one wished for her art’s sake that she would eat a dozen steaks a day.” Little did he know about the dancer’s legendary appetite, as Marie Rambert (founder of London’s Ballet Club where Markova performed in the early 1930s) recalled quite vividly:

Markova “flying” in Giselle

“Everyone who sees Markova, that exquisite ethereal creature, must imagine she lives exclusively in the air. What was our staggering surprise when after our first matinee, in which she danced the most birdlike of Swans, she sent out for a large steak and kidney pie which she proceeded to consume with relish! We were even more staggered when, at the same evening’s performance, her Sylphides was lighter than air! Not one ounce of what she absorbs ever turns to fat. It is all transmuted into the most subtle instrument of dancing.

The other-worldly Markova in The Haunted Ballroom (1934)

“Happy Markova who can eat like a mortal and dance like an immortal.”

Equally in awe was dancer/choreographer Agnes de Mille, a student at Rambert’s Ballet Club when Markova was its reigning star. As de Mille wrote in her autobiography Speak to Me, Dance with Me: Alicia Markova, the stringiest girl I ever saw, a darling little skeleton, with the great eyes of a moth at the top, and a butterfly blur at the bottom where normally feet would be, and in between shocks and flashes of electricity.

Markova at the Ballet Club in Les Masques (1933)

When she paused there was the most beautifully surprising line I had ever looked at. She was twenty, although she looked much older because she was so thin. She didn’t look any age when she moved. She became a delicate force.

Throughout her career, the press often asked Markova for her “secret” diet tips to pass on to their weight-conscious readers. Her answer always astonished, as in this 1937 British newspaper interview titled No Special Diet – Markova Tells of Her Training: “On Sunday afternoon a petite dark-haired girl walked through the lounge of the Prince of Wales Hotel, settled herself in an armchair and ordered tea.

Markova photographed while eating a bountiful tea

“She had a very good tea. Scones, bread and butter and cakes. For although she is superlatively slim, with a figure like a nymph, she is one of those lucky people who never have to diet. ‘Tell me, how is it you are slight and dainty, when so many ballet dancers are muscular and inclined to heaviness?’ That amused Markova.

“’Oh, I have muscles, too, but they are not visible. Perhaps that is because I have had the right sort of training, and have been taught dancing by the right people. Also, I can relax my whole body quite completely. Apparently this is quite a rare accomplishment, so my masseuse tells me.’

Markova was known for her poise and “stillness” on and off stage

“That accounts for the remarkable poise. All through the interview her slim fingers lay quite composed in her lap, except when they were holding food. ‘No special diet then?’ Another dazzling smile. ‘No, quite the reverse, in fact. I believe that a dancer’s life is so strenuous he or she must eat plenty of nourishing food, otherwise they could not stand the pace. But I do not smoke at all – although I love chocolates!'” (See earlier post when Cadbury came calling!)

Markova ate more than partner Anton Dolin

In 1942, a reporter for the Cheyenne, Wyoming Eagle was equally amazed at Markova’s diet: “Only 97 pounds, Markova’s daily schedule is as strenuous as a longshoreman’s, and to keep up with her energy-consuming routine the dancer eats five times a day, plus a couple of strawberry milkshakes for good measure. As a child, she was painfully thin and anemic and at the recommendation of her doctor she took dancing lessons to build herself up. Today, though Markova looks as fragile as a china doll, she has the constitution of a powerhouse – and the enviable reputation of being one of the greatest ballerinas of all time.”

“If you still believe from the look of me that I live on butterfly wings, come out to dinner with me. But make sure you’ve got plenty of time.”

Markova quickly realized her voracious eating habits made for great press copy – and newspaper features sold tickets. That candor also endeared her to fans of both sexes, who found her healthy appetite downright refreshing in the rarified world of ballet. But on one occasion, Markova’s diet – or lack thereof – made headlines on two continents, turning into a marketing bonanza for a 1954 British countrywide tour with talented partner Milorad Miskovitch.

Markova and Miskovitch – as a pair, with no corps of other dancers – were booked to perform at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall. But just before the set date, the Philharmonic Society cancelled the engagement, as amusingly recounted in the London Daily Express:

She Might Harm the Machinery: 7 st. Alicia “must not dance on our stage.” Seven-stone (98 pound) Alicia Markova, “the ballerina who lands like a snowflake,” has been refused permission to dance at the Liverpool Harmonic Hall – because her dainty movement might damage delicate machinery under the stage. The stage holds the weight of the 72-strong Philharmonic Orchestra. School choirs use the stage and hundreds of boys scurry across it to receive their prizes at school speech days.

But Markova – she drinks a bottle of stout every night to keep her weight from dropping below seven stone – has been told: “sorry, but we can’t allow you to dance on the stage.” Critics have said Markova defies the law of gravity. Anton Dolin, her former partner, once said: “I have to pluck her out of the air.” Mr. W. C. Stiff, secretary of the Philharmonic Society, said yesterday: “Delicate machinery which operates the 25ft.-high screen is housed under the stage. The corporation put a ban on dancing because of the risk of damaging machinery.” No exception. Mr. Stiff added: “Although the stage is used for a variety of purposes, the people do not dance. Markova dances.”

After performing in a boxing ring, Markova offered to “weigh-in” again at London’s Royal Albert Hall

She also knew a great story when she saw one. With Markova quotes like, “I’d be much more likely to float straight up and damage the ceiling!”, the ridiculous tale was picked up by the international newswires, appearing in papers throughout Europe and across the United States. But the press coverage didn’t stop there. Hoping to cash in on some of the publicity, owners of the Liverpool boxing ring offered their arena to Markova. They were undoubtedly shocked when she said “Yes!”

7st Alicia in wrestle-land, screamed the headline in one paper. Markova in ‘ring’ triumph, boasted another. “7 st. ballerina Alicia Markova tripped lightly back to a dressing room normally used by 20st. wrestlers. . . . her mirror propped on a massage table. On the walls were scrawled fighter’s autographs.” . . . “She had just come downstairs from the stadium itself where 3000 people had rapturously applauded her for five minutes.” . . . “Afterwards she sent a message to the audience, who had recalled her nine times: ‘Sign your programs, send them in, and I’ll autograph them all.'”

“Who would pay to see Marks dance?” Sergei Diaghilev asked the youngest-ever soloist at his famed Ballets Russes. She was Lilian Alicia Marks, a tiny and timid British girl, just turned 14. She knew what was coming next. Ballet was a world of classically-trained Russians: Pavlova, Nijinsky, Karsavina, Danilova. So Diaghilev rechristened his little dance prodigy Alicia Markova. Lily Alicia was actually disappointed. It was only a few letters tacked onto her last name. Why not the more dramatic Olga Markova, in honor of her hero, ballet legend Olga Spessitseva? But uh-LEE-see-ah MAR-kova it would be.

“What’s in a name?” asked Shakespeare in Romeo & Juliet. “That which we call a rose by any other would smell as sweet.” But does a delivery of rosa berberifolias fill you with joy? The flower’s latin name sounds more like a skin rash than a romantic bloom. So with all due deference to the Bard, there’s a lot in a name, especially for performers.

Eugene Curran and Tula Ellice: not ideal marquis names

One of the most popular dance couples of all times might have had trouble enticing American movie audiences as “McMath & Austerlitz,” a name more befitting an accounting firm. Much catchier is Rogers & Astaire. And Eugene Curran Kelly smartly went with the jauntier Gene. (Fun fact: Markova and Gene Kelly liked to play charades together.) Then there’s Kelly’s impossibly long-limbed partner Cyd Charisse. Would she have ever seen her name up in lights if she stuck with Tula Ellice Finklea?

In a recent New York Times article, the paper’s dance critic Alastair Macaulay wondered if today’s talented American ballerinas would be given more roles if they too considered changing their names:

Gillian Murphy dancing with American Ballet Theatre

“For many people, a ballerina must also be an embodiment of the Old World,” writes Macaulay. “Today that opinion seems shared by American Ballet Theater, whose idea of ballet theater often seems none too American. In its eight-week season, which just concluded at the Metropolitan Opera House, only 2 of its 11 principal women were from this country. The younger of them, Gillian Murphy, is reaching the zenith of her powers; but would she be more revered if — following the practice of Hilda Munnings (Lydia Sokolova), Lilian Alicia Marks (Alicia Markova) and Peggy Hookham (Margot Fonteyn) — she changed her name to Ghislaine Muravieva and claimed to come from Omsk?”

Markova starred with the American Ballet Theatre (then called just Ballet Theatre) in its start-up years in the early 1940s. Previously, she had made her stellar reputation by pioneering British ballet at a time only Russian companies were considered true ballet artists. When interviewed by a London newspaper in 1933, Markova posed the question, “Are we becoming ballet-minded?” As excerpted in The Making of Markova:

Lily Marks and Patte Kay: better names for vaudeville than ballet

“British Ballet has had to work hard, but I think we have come through,” Miss Markova told the Daily Sketch. “It is becoming so popular in theatres and cinema houses that thousands of British girls are going into training. Soon we shall be able to leave off our ‘Russian’ names – and be just plain Jones and Smith,” laughed Miss Markova. “I got my early training with Diaghileff, and, of course, he wouldn’t let us have any but Russian names.” . . . It made all the difference, though, no doubt, the dancing was the same.

Lest anyone think this was entirely a female prejudice, male dancers also changed their names. Markova’s most frequent partner, Anton Dolin, was christened Francis Patrick Chippendall Healey-Kay. When starting to dance professionally, he took the first name Anton, after Chekhov, with Diaghilev suggesting Patrikayev for his last. But after a few years, Patte, as everyone called him, changed it once again, this time to Dolin, which stuck. Even celebrated dancer/choreographer Léonide Massine, who was Russian by birth, got a name change courtesy of Diaghilev. The impresario thought Leonid Fyodorovich Myasin too difficult to pronounce.

The illustrious Ballets Russes artist Léon Bakst changed his Russian name for a very different reason. Born Lev Samoilovich Rosenberg, he “renamed himself Léon Bakst after moving to St. Petersburg, where he quickly established a reputation both as a painter and as a sophisticated and much revered set and costume designer,” explains author Jonathan Wilson in his 2007 biography of Marc Chagall, one of Bakst’s pupils. “Bakst, who had worked hard to erase at least some elements of his Jewishness – had converted to Lutheranism in 1903 so he could marry a wealthy Christian – but converted back seven years later after the marriage fell apart.” (The Jewish Chagall would also change his name to better fit in with his new artistic home in Paris. Thus Moishe Shagal became Marc Chagall.)

Many Jewish artists and performers experienced virulent anti-Semitism in Russia and Europe throughout the early-to-mid 20th century, including Alicia Markova, who always remained fiercely open and proud of her religion.

Ballet Theatre’s ruthless business manager, German Sevastianov

When Markova signed with New York’s Ballet Theatre in 1941, German Sevastianov was the newly named business manager brought on by booking impresario Sol Hurok to “Russify” the company. As Ballet Theatre’s then managing director Charles Payne recalled in his fascinating book American Ballet Theatre, it was like the “Russian Occupation,” all part of Hurok’s master plan for billing the American company as “The Greatest in Russian Ballet.”

From The Making of Markova:“Sevastianov saw to it that dancers who were formerly principals would now be demoted to soloists,” writes Antony Tudor biographer Donna Perlmutter. “He cast a jaundiced eye on the likes of Miriam Golden, Nora Kaye, Muriel Bentley, David Nillo and more – most of them Jews – and brought in dancers, along with Baronova (Sevastianov’s wife, prima ballerina Irina Baronova) from the Ballet Russe [de Monte Carlo]. It was said that he was anti-American, anti-Jewish, and anti-Tudor.”

Markova as Giselle at Ballet Theatre, 1941

But when it came to Markova, Sevastianov had no choice. The “Jewess” was to share the limelight as principal ballerina with his wife Irina.

She was just too big a box-office draw to ignore.

Ironically, despite being anti-Semitic, Sevastianov would change his own name due to American prejudices against Germans at the outbreak of World War II. So “German” Sevastianov became the friendlier “Gerry.” But another white lie would force him to actually defend the Jewish cause on the front lines, according to Ballet Theatre’s Charles Payne. In order to obtain Baronova’s parents’ permission for the couple to marry – Irina was only 17, and Sevastianov nearly twice her age – he had claimed to be born in 1906, rather than 1904, as 29 sounded much younger than 31. Sevastianov even maintained the falsehood on his American passport. Those few years unfortunately made him eligible for the draft in 1944, though he was actually past the age 35 cut-off. But when “Gerry” informed the draft board of his real birth year, he was offered two options: spend the war years in jail for perjury, or serve the country. Suddenly the armed forces didn’t seem so bad.

No one said breakthrough art is easy, either for the creator or the initial audience. When Igor Stravinsky composed The Rite of Spring (Le Sacré de Printemps) for the Ballets Russes 100 years ago, it spearheaded a revolution in contemporary music – and a revolt in the theatre. Ballet patrons physically rioted when faced with the cacophonous score accompanying Vaslav Nijinsky’s equally provocative choreography. Though police were called in, impresario Sergei Diaghilev couldn’t have been happier. The more his ballet company shocked, the more press he got, and the more tickets he sold.

“No composer since can avoid the shadow of this great icon of the 20th century, and score after score by modern masters would be unthinkable without its model,” British composer George Benjamin wrote of Stravinsky in The Guardianthis past May. “This, in a way, is cubist music – where musical materials slice into one another, interact and superimpose with the most brutal edges, thus challenging the musical perspective and logic that had dominated European ears for centuries.”

Picasso’s cubist cardboard costume for Parade (1917)

Diaghilev was a genius at choosing artists who challenged the status quo. Who but the avant-garde Russian would have asked Picasso to create cubist ballet costumes – out of stiff cardboard no less!

When Diaghilev invited Alicia Markova to join the Ballets Russes as its youngest-ever soloist in 1923, she was a shy, unsophisticated 14-year-old. (See photo below.)

Alicia Markova at age 14, the newest member of the Ballets Russes (1924)

Her first starring role was in LeChant de Rossignol (The Song of the Nightingale), with choreography by George Balanchine – his first major commission for Diaghilev – and music by Igor Stravinsky. While the tiny dance prodigy had no problems mastering Balanchine’s complicated and supremely athletic dance sequences, Stravinsky’s music was another matter. As Markova reminisced in The Making of Markova:I remember the very first rehearsal with Balanchine. I started to cry and they said what’s the matter? I said I’m never going to be able to learn this. You know, this isn’t music to me. What am I to do? And Stravinsky was so wonderful. . . . He said, “There’s no worry. I’ll be there for all the rehearsals, and I will conduct, [unheard of for the celebrated composer!] and as long as I’m here, you mustn’t worry, but there’s one thing you have to promise me . . . You’ve got to learn the scores by ear. You must learn the instrumentation, orchestration and everything by ear,” he said, “and then you’ll never have any worry for the rest of your life.” And he was so right.

Markova’s star-maker Sergei Diaghilev, with her music teacher Igor Stravinsky

Not only did Stravinsky become Markova’s music instructor, but he accompanied her, Diaghilev, and Henri Matisse (the lucky Alicia’s art teacher!) to the studio of Nightingale costumier (and former ballet dancer) Vera de Bosset Soudeikine, who incidentally, would become Stravinsky’s second wife. Matisse was responsible for Markova’s costume design, with Mme. Soudeikine charged with bringing his creation to life.

Stravinsky happily married to second wife Vera de Bosset Soudeikine, both subjects (along with Balanchine), of Richard Nelson’s fascinating play Nikolai and the Others, performed at Lincoln Center last spring.

When Matisse announced his plan to cover Markova’s little girl hair bob with a white bonnet trimmed in osprey feathers – an extravagantly expensive trim – the budget-minded Diaghilev emphatically cried ‘No!” As Markova finishes the story in The Making of Markova: But please Sergevitch,” pleaded Matisse, “the little one needs them round her face to soften the hard line of the bonnet and make her a little bird,” protested Matisse. “No ospreys,” repeated Diaghilev. Then Stravinsky entered the argument. He too thought they were necessary, but Diaghilev was adamant and refused, and unexpectedly Stravinsky turned to Matisse and said, “Henri, we buy the ospreys between us, 50-50, yes?” “Yes!” echoed Matisse, and so I had my ospreys, and how I guarded them, as if they were gold.

While Markova never again had trouble with Stravinsky’s unique musical phrasing, others were not so lucky, as when the composer collaborated again with Balanchine in New York in 1942. The mystified dancers? Pachyderms at the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus! As Matthew Wittman explained in Circus and the City: New York 1793-2010: “‘The Ballet of the Elephants’ production was an attempt by John Ringling North to bring high culture into the circus and featured fifty elephants in pink tutus accompanied by female dancers. The rhythm changes in Stravinsky’s Circus Polka proved difficult for the elephants to grasp, and it was only performed intermittently.”

Apparently circus elephants do forget when it comes to dancing to Stravinsky

Evidently pigeons and songbirds don’t care much for Stravinsky’s dissonant compositions either, according to a research study posted on Discovery.com. The classical cadences of Bach are more to their liking. Fish, it appears, are musically non-judgmental – if listening to either composer’s music results in more food.

The very human Markova, however, was an ardent and vocal Stravinsky fan – of both the man and his exhilarating music. The two remained lifelong friends and visited each other often in the United States where Stravinsky moved with Vera during World War II.

Markova starred in The Firebird at Ballet Theatre (1945), with music by Stravinsky

Markova asked Stravinsky to compose music for her Broadway debut – to which he happily consented – and she delighted starring at the Ballet Theatre (today’s American Ballet Theatre) in the 1945 revival of The Firebird, the composer’s first commission for the Ballets Russes back in 1910. (Though Michel Fokine choreographed the ballet for Anna Pavlova, she refused the role proclaiming Stravinsky’s music “noise!”) Marc Chagall (currently the subject of a illuminating new exhibit at The Jewish Museum in New York) designed Markova’s breathtaking Firebird costume, which was covered in shimmering gold dust and topped with a dramatic headdress of bird of paradise feathers. One wonders if osprey plumes were still just too expensive!

As a longtime art lover, I was continually fascinated by Markova’s friendships and working relationships with many of the most famous modern artists of her day. While my last post dealt with the enormously complicated construction of classical ballet costumes, Markova was also a star of avant-garde contemporary works, with costumes and sets as cutting-edge as the startling dance sequences. In addition to wearing costumes by Matisse and Chagall (as discussed in earlier posts), Markova was dressed by Giorgio de Chirico, Marie Laurencin, and Andre Derain, among other modernists.

Salvador Dali – the very definition of surreal

Salvador Dali was almost one of them, and here’s the amusing behind-the-scenes story.

The Spanish-born Dali (1904-1989) is so famous for his surrealist works that his name has become short-hand for the term. (Check out the fantastical food imaginings of Catalan chef Ferran Adria, which led to his nickname “Salvador Dali of the kitchen.” An exhibit of his edible art renderings is currently on view at Somerset House, London, coming next to the Boston Science Museum.)

Even 24 years after Dali’s death, a blockbuster retrospective of his work, first at the Pompidou Center in Paris and currently at the Museo Reina Sofia in Madrid, has broken all previous attendance records. The artist who once famously said, “I don’t do drugs. I am drugs,” never lacked for attention alive or dead. So it’s only natural that Dali’s theatrical public persona would have given rise to commissions for theatrical set design.

Dali’s set for Massine’s Bacchanale (1939). The dancers emerged from the hole in the swan’s breast.

In 1939, the ever-inventive choreographer Léonide Massine hired Dali to design the set and costumes for his one act ballet Bacchanale, set to music by Richard Wagner. As Jack Anderson writes in The One and Only: The Ballet Russe De Monte Carlo, “The season’s scandal was Bacchanale . . . Dali’s decor was dominated by a huge swan with a hole in its breast through which dancers emerge, some in remarkable costumes.

As Dali’s Venus in Bacchanale, ballerina Nini Theilade appeared to be nude

“There was a woman with a rose-colored fish-head. Lola Montez wore harem trousers and a hoop skirt covered in teeth. The Knight of Death turned out to be an immense perambulating umbrella.. . . Prudish audiences blushed to behold the male ensemble with large red lobsters (as sex symbols) on their thighs, and Nini Theilade, portraying Venus, created a sensation because she seemed totally nude. In actuality, she wore flesh-colored tights from her neck to her toes.”

As Dali’s contribution to Bacchanale made the only lasting impression in Massine’s less-than-stellar work, it only added to the artist’s legend. As the egotistical Dali once said of himself, “There are some days when I think I’m going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.”

The always amusing Salvador Dali

But the great surprise in this tale is not that Massine continued to work with Dali, next on Labyrinth in 1941, but rather that the crazy Catalonian was hired by British choreographer Antony Tudor for his planned “intimate” new staging of Romeo & Juliet at Ballet Theatre (today’s American Ballet Theatre). Perhaps Tudor never heard Dali’s comment: “It is good taste, and good taste alone, that possesses the power to sterilize and is always the first handicap to any creative functioning.”

One of Dali’s proposed “crutch-themed” set designs for Tudor’s Romeo & Juliet.

Alicia Markova was Tudor’s choice for Juliet and his choreographic muse. She laughingly remembered their meeting with Dali to view his proposed set designs. Crutches were everywhere to symbolize doomed love, but perhaps the most memorable suggestion was that the famous balcony be constructed as a giant set of false teeth (your sexual innuendo goes here) supported by gigantic sky-high crutches.

Though Markova always wondered what Dali had in mind for her Juliet (perhaps a leg cast?) it was the ballerina herself who inspired the eventual design theme executed by the Russian Surrealist (and Neo-Romantic) Eugene Berman. At Sergei Diaghilev’s urging, the teenaged Markova had spent hour upon hour at the Uffizi Museum in Florence studying Renaissance art. As I wrote in The Making of Markova: “The way the female figures in the paintings held their hands in repose, and the subtle tilt of their heads were poses Markova later incorporated into her own delicate dance movements.

To capture the innocence of youth, Markova, aged 32 when she played the teenaged Juliet, had a red wig made to resemble the Botticelli beauty above. The ballerina won rave reviews for her portrayal. But the attention didn’t stop there. The attendant publicity for the much praised ballet caught the eye of several couturiers who immediately turned Markova’s diaphanous, empire-waist gowns into the next season’s big fashion trend.

Dali-inspired shoe hat by Elsa Schiaparelli

Dali’s surrealist jewlery

Who knows what trends Dali’s Romeo & Juliet might have inspired? He collaborated with great friend and couturier Elsa Schiaparelli on her infamous shoe hat and lips-pocket suit seen here. And Dali’s own Surrealist jewelry designs – weeping eyes with clock-dial pupils and Mae West’s sexy smile in rubies and pearls – still fetch great sums at auction.

Alicia Markova was a pack rat. The woman saved everything, from costume invoices and injury X-rays to rare music scores and her first evening gown. (It was Lanvin – a gift.) And then there were the letters: file upon file overflowing with a lifetime of correspondence from famous (and infamous) dancers and choreographers, ardent fans, and some of the greatest creative artists of her day.

While I was writing my biography of the ballet legend, many of those letters proved revelatory, but so did countless other objects, professional materials, and extraordinary photographs (see below) that are part of the Alicia Markova Collection entrusted to the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center at Boston University.

At 14, Markova was the youngest-ever dancer at the Ballets Russes (1925)

Though I was privileged to be the first person given access to Markova’s treasure trove of personal memorabilia, many illuminating items from those archives are now on public view for the first time in the Gotlieb Memorial Gallery on the first floor of Mugar Memorial Library on the Boston University campus (July through November 2013).

For me, assisting the Gotlieb’s resident artist and exhibition wizard Perry Barton was a fond reminder of the lengthy, yet rewarding process of organizing the vast collection. It was such a joy to suddenly discover a long-hidden gem. One of my most cherished “finds,” now on exhibit, is an original Matisse pencil self-portrait given to Markova during her Ballets Russes days.

As you can tell from the photo above, Lilian Alicia Marks was just a child when Sergei Diaghilev invited her to join his illustrious company. She was so much younger, smaller, and less worldly than all the other dancers that the older artistic geniuses in her midst took little Alicia under their collective wings.

Matisse self-portrait

“Uncle Henri” Matisse (1925) at the Ballets Russes

The 56-year-old Henri Matisse was completely enchanted by the sweet, shy girl who called him “Uncle Henri.” In addition to designing the costume for her first major role, the groundbreaking painter took the time to teach Markova about modern art. Alicia was a very serious, earnest pupil, and perhaps to amuse her one day, Matisse sketched a humorous self-portrait (similar to the one at right), which he then initialed and presented to her. The grateful student then folded it in half and carefully placed it inside one of her Ballets Russes programs for safekeeping. There it remained until I discovered it over eight decades later.

Markova had many amazing headpieces. From Cimarosiana, 1927.

Reading Markova’s journals made me look at many of her keepsakes in rather different ways. For example, the legendary ballerina saved many exquisite headpieces, several of which she made herself. They were all carefully wrapped in tissue paper, something she did before and after every performance. One in particular appeared rather scruffy inside, and I later discovered why.

Markova kept her headpieces in place with glue!

When Markova was at the Ballets Russes, her hair was in the page boy style of a young girl, as seen above left. Diaghilev insisted she wear a headband on stage to keep it neatly in place until long enough to smooth into a dancer’s bun. During one of her astounding spin combinations one evening, the headband flew off, eventually encircling her neck like a hula hoop. Though Diaghilev was impressed that she continued to dance impeccably, he warned her it must never happen again. From then on, Markova actually glued her headpieces on. Though it was a special, non-permanent glue, it still managed to grab hair and skin upon removal, remnants of which were clearly visible inside a feathered crown I unwrapped (similar to the one above). Lucky for Markova, she had a thick head of hair.

Markova volunteered at the Stage Door Canteen throughout WWII

Though Markova’s archives contain many priceless, historic items, my favorite was much more personal. It was a tiny pale pink leather pouch. From the contents (which included hernia clips and a removable tooth bridge!) it was clear the ballerina carried it with her everywhere while dancing across the United States in the late ’30s and ’40s. Also inside was a war ration book dated 6/21/43. I later learned Markova used the bulk of her weekly rations to buy goods that were impossible to procure in England during the war, sending weekly care packages to her family and friends in London. A small black and white photo of Markova’s mother and sisters was attached to the ration book.

Anyone even marginally interested in ballet, art, or fashion should head to Washington D.C. this summer for the knock-out blockbuster exhibit “Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, 1909-1929: When Art Danced with Music” at the National Gallery of Art. Adapted from a stellar 2010 exhibition at London’s Victoria & Albert Museum (curated by Jane Pritchard), the wildly colorful, entertaining, and often astonishing show celebrates one of the most innovative dance companies of all times. As the National Gallery explains, the Ballets Russes “propelled the performing arts to new heights through groundbreaking collaborations between artists, composers, choreographers, dancers, and fashion designers,” an unheard of phenomenon in the early 20th century.

It was visionary Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev who brought together a Who’s Who of creative geniuses – Nijinsky, Pavlova, Picasso, Matisse, Man Ray, Bakst, Fokine, Stravinsky, Cocteau, Chanel, and countless others – creating nothing less than an aesthetic firestorm that electrified the world. The youngest-ever member and soloist of this illustrious company was 14-year-old Lilian Alicia Marks. Though known to dislike children, Diaghilev developed a close bond with the frail British dance prodigy after first seeing her perform as a 10-year-old.

A very youthful 14-year-old Markova at the Ballets Russes

Surprising everyone, Diaghilev became a father figure to the earnest, painfully shy girl, whisking her away from foggy London to sun-drenched Monte Carlo, home of the famed Ballets Russes. There Diaghilev renamed his “little daughter” (as he fondly called her) Alicia Markova, and began her fairy-tale education. “Uncle Igor” Strainvinsky was Markova’s music instructor, Matisse and Picasso taught her about modern art, and she learned about fashion from none other than Coco Chanel.

“To my dear little thing,” Balanchine wrote to Markova

Also joining the company in 1924 was the untested, up-and-coming choreographer George Balanchine. Because of Markova’s astounding technique – able to do many jumps and spins formerly only performed by men – Balanchine selected the practically mute teenager to star in his first ballet for Diaghilev: Le Chant du Rossignol (The Song of The Nightingale). It would be a huge success for them both, with Balanchine on his way to becoming the most influential choreographer of the 20th century, and Markova a future world famous prima ballerina. The Nightingale introduced Balanchine’s never-before-seen modern balletic stylings and Markova’s ability to effortlessly float and fly like a bird.

Markova in a Matisse-designed costume for The Song of the Nightingale (1927)

The photo above shows Markova in a Matisse-designed costume for the ballet, but it wasn’t the original one she wore for the 1925 premiere. While Alicia had been picturing a brown-feathered tutu for the role of a tiny bird, Matisse had other ideas, as the ballerina reminisces in The Making of Markova: “Listen little one,” Matisse was saying, “white silk tights all over, then white satin ballet shoes, large diamond [rhinestone] bracelets around both ankles, the wrist of one arm, and the other just here above the elbow, a little white bonnet like a baby’s and no hair to show. Please dear remember, no hair.”

For Rouge et Noir (1939), Henri Matisse designed another iconic costume for Markova

For the first time in ballet history, a ballerina appeared on stage wearing nothing but a second-skin leotard, and in white georgette, the teenaged Markova looked practically nude! She was so tiny and under-developed for her age, however, that the 14-year-old looked anything but vulgar, completely charming the French audiences. England was another story, however. When the Lord Chamberlain got wind of the “risqué” costume, he banned London’s own little Alicia from wearing it on stage. Matisse saved the day by designing a white chiffon tunic and pants (as seen in the photo above) so the show could go on.

1929 Ballets Russes program with cover by Giorgio de Chirico illustrating his costume designs for Le Bal (1929), such as the one worn by Markova seen here

Markova saved all the glorious Ballets Russes programs from her magical time with the company. Cover illustrations, costume designs, and photographs were created by the likes of Picasso, Derain, de Chirico, Braque, Miro, and Man Ray among others. They are part of the vast Alicia Markova Collection at the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center at Boston University and will be on view with other personal memorabilia belonging to the legendary ballerina from July through November 2013. The Making of Markova exhibit is free and open to the public in the Gotlieb Memorial Gallery on the first floor of the Mugar Memorial Library at Boston University.

A Man Ray photo of Markova in La Chatte (1927)

The five years Markova spent at the Ballets Russes were the most influential of her career. In addition to being trained by the unquestioned creative superstars of her day, she met many dancers, choreographers, composers, and artists who became lifelong friends and colleagues. Seven years older than Markova, Alexandra Danilova was both Balanchine’s lover and a protective big sister to the timid dancer when they met. Two of the greatest ballerinas of their generation, the pair would be one another’s confidante, playmate, teacher and supporter for seven decades. Markova was eternally grateful to the man who that made all of that possible – the incomparable Sergei Diaghilev

The exquisite Alexandra Danilova, Markova’s dearest friend, dancing with the egotistical Serge Lifar (Markova’s future bête-noir) in the Ballets Russes production of Appolon musagète (1928) with costumes by Coco Chanel.